


Charity

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A- Z Christmas Prompt, Doctor John Watson, Friendship, Homeless Network (Sherlock), Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, charity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: Sherlock had often shocked John with the things he got up to right under his nose, within the small confines of their flat, their space, right in front of his eyes, behind his back, below his feet, above his head. Shocked him with visceral sights, choking smells, deafening noises, unexpected sensations, with mental stimulation, profound information, limitless questions, and prodigious creativity. There were instances of repetition, routine, but it always came with a slight twist, enough of one to shock John all over again, to have him gaping, shouting, cringing, grinning, laughing. It was never ending. Each day a little bit different from the last.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 3
Kudos: 85





	Charity

Sherlock had often shocked John with the things he got up to right under his nose, within the small confines of their flat, their space, right in front of his eyes, behind his back, below his feet, above his head. Shocked him with visceral sights, choking smells, deafening noises, unexpected sensations, with mental stimulation, profound information, limitless questions, and prodigious creativity. There were instances of repetition, routine, but it always came with a slight twist, enough of one to shock John all over again, to have him gaping, shouting, cringing, grinning, laughing. It was never ending. Each day a little bit different from the last. 

Therefore, as John made his way from his bedroom, drawing his dressing gown around him with a yawn, he was both surprised yet not surprised at all when he heard chatter and stepped through into the kitchen to find the room bustling hot and littered with people. People he vaguely recognised and others he’d never met before. They were eating and talking lowly, huddled in worn, faded, tattered clothes. There were others in the living room, looking over piles of clothing, holding them up to their bodies, checking the tags, swapping and sharing and smiling with cheeks rosy from the crackling fire.

“ _Ah_ , John, good morning,” Sherlock greeted, appearing at John’s side to take his elbow and lead him to where a cup of tea was awaiting him, sleeves rolled up, a silly vibrant pink apron hanging from his neck, hair frizzy from humidity. “I expected you to be a bit earlier than this, so it’s not as hot as you prefer.”

Mrs Hudson shuffled to him happily before John could open his mouth in question, “Oh, morning dear! - We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“N-No?” John answered, looking around the two rooms again and tightening the belt of his dressing gown a little bit tighter, worrying absently about how high up the length was to the bottom of his underpants, “What's going on?”

“What? Didn’t he tell you? - _Oh Sherlock_ , I thought you said he'd agreed and was all right with it?” Mrs Hudson complained with a tut, swatting at Sherlock’s bare forearm and giving John an apologetic smile. “Normally he goes out to them. Or that’s what he told me. But this year, he thought it would be nice if they came inside, enjoyed the fire and a hot meal and tried on some fresh clothes. At first I was a bit dubious, you know, as you would be, though Sherlock assured me that he knew each and every one by name and reputation. Respected them. Liked them, even! And, really, how could I turn away those in need at this time of the year?" Her smile widened, brightened, and she stepped closer, touching John's hand with proud verve. "They _love_ your new tree, by the way. I’ve heard nothing but compliments all morning!” She gestured towards the living room, where a woman with a familiar face was admiring a bauble with a delicate touch, her hair matted and unwashed under the ragged beanie she wore. "Absolutely love it!"

“Oh, right...” John muttered, watching her for a few moments more and grimacing ever so slightly at the smell of sweat, which permeated the hot air around him with each passing second, “Do you want me to do anything? - I could get dressed and maybe get my bag, help with medical problems? I doubt many people here have a regular GP?”

Sherlock looked up at him from where he was cracking open a boiled egg and gave a slanted, fleeting smile, “No,” he agreed, “they do not. - The worst they have are ingrown toenails, nits, a few colds, and mild strep throat, but, please, don’t let that stop you. You’re the doctor.”

Nodding, John leaned in and kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek before turning on his heels, heading back to his bedroom. Sherlock, despite all of his bluster about not caring for people, was actually a huge supporter of the poorest people in society and went out of his way to provide comfort to them, even if it was only a boiled egg, a bit of spare cash or a offered chat. Something obviously a lot more evident with their flat full to bursting by those very people. People he'd befriended over a time before John had entered into his life. It was good. More than good. John was delighted to be allowed the invitation to witness Sherlock's kindness on a bigger level.

It didn't take long for John to be dressed, looking mostly presentable regardless of the fact that he'd only woke up moments before. With a glance in a mirror and a brushing back of his hair, he returned downstairs, grabbing his medical bag and his cuppa on arrival, and taking a few deep glugs of the tepid tea as he settled himself down on a vacated chair at the kitchen table. Sherlock was right about the various mild medical problems, as per usual, but John worked his way through them carefully and methodically anyway, treating them like any other new patient, offering advice and bandages to whomever he could. Most of the people it seemed were mostly just lonely, and so John sat and listened to their woes, their stories, their traumas and hopes for the future. Some, of course, knew him already from his time standing at Sherlock's side, and got to know him better, questioning his loyalty, giving lessons on the sleight of hand, and dropping valuable hints at Sherlock's mysterious boltholes.

When the queue for his attention and clinical know-how had died down, John moved to Sherlock's side and bumped his hip, giving a huge grin at the responding nudge, “I like your apron. Suits you.”

He chuckled and turned to smooth his hand down it, pressing it again his body, head tilting, “Doesn’t it just?” he murmured in playful arrogance, mouth quirked into a lopsided smirk. “Mrs Hudson doesn’t think so. She laughed in my face when she saw me wearing it.” Twisting, Sherlock reached for a nearby plate of buttered toast, scrambled eggs and crispy bacon, and held it out to him, extending a shiny fork. “It’s not poisoned. Promise. - Nor is it dowsed in ghost pepper flakes.”

John took it with a snort and bit into a piece of bacon, wiggling the remainder the air, “Does nobody else need this? I feel a bit greedy tucking into a plate of food opposite a group of the homeless…”

“They've had theirs,” Sherlock told him with a nod to the sink, where a heap of plates were waiting to be washed, used utensils trapped in the small spaces between them, slicked with butter, jam, honey, and bits of egg. “You have the last of the bacon. As you can imagine, it was the most sought after.”

“Thank you,” John smiled in reply, standing with his back to the worktop as he ate and let his gaze wander, “How long have you been doing this?” He gestured with his fork in emphasis. “Helping them?”

Sherlock glanced out at the bundled up and happily fed persons that were now filling most of the living room, with only a few remaining at the kitchen table, “Them specifically? Not long. Five years,” he replied, eyeing individuals up and then moving his focus to the middle distance. “Homeless people in general, however, that’s going on 17 years now. Give or take a few. - I’ve been with them, amongst them, often during that time. Purposefully so, of course. I was never homeless myself. I chose to be on the streets. A luxury they don’t have...”

“You're genuinely a nice person, do you know that?” John said with another smile, this one soft and admiring as he bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's teasingly, “You pretend not to be, but you're just a big softy...”

“Mm. Mrs Hudson would probably agree with you,” Sherlock said with a flicking look at where she was pouring a young man with a beard another cup of steaming tea, “but I’m not so sure either of you are right. - Considering they’re relevant to my Work, it would be an inconvenience if they didn’t trust me or died. The more there are, the further my reach. They are my eyes and ears in places I cannot, or dare not, tread. A living, breathing, moving network. One which needs to be powered and well tended to.”

“Is it...” John paused, thinking of his next words carefully as he put his plate aside, “Do you think it's because of the drug thing too? That you understand some of their situation?”

There was a long pause and then Sherlock peered at him, “Those that were addicts did not last long on the streets, even with my help, even with my tendency to somewhat relate to their predicament. - I tend not to… associate myself with them anymore. They are a liability. A damaged node. It is something they need to do alone. One can only do so much from the outside, it is up to them to make a change, to want to stop.”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it,” John said apologetically, reaching to give Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze before he turned back and picked up his plate, beginning to eat once more. “You know that all _that stuff_ doesn't matter to me, right? I don't think any worse of you because of it. If anything I'm _proud_ of you for giving up the drugs and moving on with your life… Making something good from it.”

“Not exactly given them up though, have I?” Sherlock muttered, moving away to start boiling another egg and inserting two more slices of bread into the toaster. “That’s why ‘Danger nights’ exist. My brother is not confident I have moved on. And neither are you. Something I don’t particularly blame you for. I have a very strong predisposition for certain compulsions. It's rational to keep vigilant.” 

“You do well though,” John insisted, wondering if he should stop shovelling eggs into his face for this kind of emotionally in-depth conversation, “Your brain can't be easy to live with, and yet you do it. You live and you work and you _help_ people. You use your skills for good, when you could be the world's greatest bank robber or something...” He chuckled at Sherlock's disgusted scoff and pressed their hips together. “I suppose what I'm saying is that you're a good person, Sherlock… I'm glad we met.”

Sherlock ducked his head, a tiny timid smile blooming with a faint mottled blush, “As am I, John,” he told him with a quiet tone. “You keep me grounded. Keep me principled.” He snorted and tipped his head, squinting impishly. “Well, as much as you _can_.”

“Yeah. I'm your conscience,” John laughed, “Your very own Jiminy Cricket.” Finishing his breakfast, John balanced the plate in the sink and gave his friend's shoulder a warm, affectionate clasp, a wave of fondness washing over him when their eyes met, a heating wave that bubbled and frothed, lasting far longer than he'd expected. Wrenching his eyes away, John cleared his throat, rubbed down Sherlock's arm and turned his gaze across the room. It snagged abruptly where a young homeless man was holding up a familiar looking jumper and the warmth was dowsed, his hand pausing. “Sherlock?” Sighing, jaw muscles flexing, John pinched the bridge of his nose and pointed. “Please tell me you aren't trying to give away _my_ clothes?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, following his rigid finger, and then snatched at the popping toast deftly, "What's that Mrs Hudson?" he called, causing the woman to blink in confusion from the sofa as he made his way towards her, blatantly and quite ridiculously pretending that she had called for him, even though she hadn't spoken a single word. "Yes, okay, I'll be right there!"

" _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock grinned cheekily as he moved away, leaving him standing alone and slightly seething, "Sorry, I'm needed."

"You absolute sod," he muttered, trying to come up with a good enough reason to snatch a jumper out of the hands of the needy, before just storming over to wrestle it away. “Season of goodwill, my _arse._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
